The soldier's progress, from the war letters of Carnegie tech men

D 570

.C26
Copy 1

TE SOLDIER'S
PROGRESS

Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2011 with funding from
The Library of Congress

http://www.archive.org/details/soldiersprogressOOcarn

THE SOLDIER'S
PROGRESS

A SENSE OF HUMOR

HITHERTO UNKNOWN IN MILITARY ANNALS. THE
CASE IS EXPRESSED IN THE REMARK OF DR. JOHN-
SOn's friend EDWARDS, — HE HAD TRIED IN HIS
TIME TO BE A PHILOSOPHER: BUT, HE DIDn't KNOW
HOW, CHEERFULNESS WAS ALWAYS BREAKING IN."

Copyright, 191 8

Carnegie Institute

of Technology

m -8 1919

C1A557322

FOREWORD

THE letters from which come the following pas-
sages were written by students who entered the
army from the Carnegie Institute of Technology,
Circumstances made it easy to select the majority
of the passages from a number of letters, readily
available as it chanced, written by students of the
departments of architecture, dramatic arts, and paint-
ing. But the sterner and more practical view of the
engineer and the industrial student is represented
as well.

One who reads many letters from soldiers soon
notices how these letters supplement one another, and
combine to tell the story of the young soldier in an
odd but singularly complete fashion. Although each
man in his letters relates much of the personal —
accounts, for instance, of unusual things which be-
fell him or others — he always tells a good deal that
might have befallen anybody who went to war. It
is these ordinary events of the great enterprise which

[7]

suggested to us the idea of piecing together out of
many letters a single story of the student-soldier^ from
the time he said good-bye to those at home and went
away to training-camp^ to the hour when he saw
action.

To achieve a narrative of this composite kind, it
has been necessary to pass by much of interest. But
there are times when the commonplace tells a deeper
story than does the extraordinary. Our sacrifice
of the unusualy in the sense of the curious, the
intensely personal, or the exciting, has been well
advised if, as you read the following pages, your
imagination, engaged with their quality, perceives
in them occasionally the presence not of different
young men, but of all young men, of Youth itself,
prince of Adventurers and Crusaders.

Haniel Long

[8]

THE SOLDIER^S PROGRESS

The Last Day at Home

Early this morning, some thirty moments before
the sun, I dressed and sHpped from the house to go
for a dip in "the pit,^' an abandoned stone-quarry
nearby. It is about a third full of spring water,
twenty or thirty feet deep, and blue-green as only
spring water can be. After my plunge I scaled the
clifF-like walls naked and perched high on a stone,
waiting the sun. I busied myself by drawing on
the dew-covered leaves of a mullein the initials
of all my friends. That mullein, a lusty one,
did not have leaves enough for all the people I
could think of with pleasure. True, some people
need several leaves, for they contain many
lovable persons in one. Then the sun came up,
a magnificent rose of yellow. With all of this
I am back at home writing my good-byes before
any of my lazy family are apparent.

[9]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

At Camp

From the day we landed, to pass under the door-
way of the infirmary for examination and inocu-
lation, and subsequently to hold up our hands,
solemnising our determination in the good cause,
from that day existence has changed as if one
abruptly turned a sharp corner, or as if Chapter
Nine ran out somewhere in the middle, and
Chapter Ten was printed boldly and firmly on
the opposite page.

The Machine

The regime, the organization, the progress of the
days, and above all the discipline, have taken
hold of us, first from the finger-tips, then grad-
ually, more and more, as a Cuban cane-crusher
draws in a sugar-cane stalk. For there is no
resisting, no holding back.

Yet there is a curious sense of satisfaction in
playing the game at last, "being in it." You pity

[lO]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

those who are not. You have a great sense of
responsibiUty enhanced. Yet there were many
things in the world to do. And the platoon
swings by a pool under a willow.

To a Friend Awaiting the Draft

I TAKE it that the war dominates your thoughts.
In this I can sympathise with you. I went through
a struggle too, and I well know what a struggle it
is. It is not to any man's discredit. Most men, it is
true, do not go through certain phases of this
psychological experience; but the greatest test of
character conceivable ensues when a man of fine
instincts comes up against the army game and
meets it without flinching. I am convinced many
men in the camp are doing this, whose outward
appearance conceals the fact.

Your feelings may be more finely shaped than
mine were, but even so you will make it all right.
Necessarily you are thrust in with men of all
types. Certain I came in contact with I thought

[II]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

I could not endure. But we are beginning to
understand each other. And each week in the
army improves the personal behavior of every
man; so that some things which irritate at first
disappear in the course of time.

Some Comfort

I HAVE doubts about my abilities in other direc-
tions, but I am beginning to believe that I shall
make a pretty good soldier. I may not be built
like a bull, but I can place a hand-grenade where
I want it, and I have thrown away my glasses
and become a pretty good shot.

Keep it Dark

I CAN manage to dope out gun ranges and deflec-
tions, but ril be damned if I can tell you why.
Keep this to yourself, though : if Pershing should
ever find out, he might get sore.

[12]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

Mess

Soldiers think a lot about food. Why shouldn't
they? What other art — some say, what other
religion — follows us in this adventure ?

The New Environment

Of the larger and more spiritual aspect of this
strange life, I shall say nothing now. I am just
beginning to realize it. There are matters that
every man comes into in his own way, and
according to the design and glory of his own
inner soul. There is no formula to follow for
the perfect in this new environment, unless it be
to enter into the open and generous spirit. Some
men call it fatalism. I don't call it that. Whatever
I do feel comes from a sense of responsibility to
myself, a faith in myself, and above all an abiding
hope for better days to come. A fatalist does
not go beyond the present hour. I haven't got
to that state yet.

[13]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

Evening

At night one always becomes more or less
moody — at least I do — hates the war, and this
camp life, and longs to hear beautiful music, to
have the good things there are in the world which
one didn't appreciate before.

Spared a Lot of Trouble

Last night a large assortment of draft recruits
wandered in. The tale goes that one lonely
soldier of the several hundred was billed for us;
but when he came to understand his fate he
jumped out of the train and was killed. As my
grandmother used to say, "He's spared a lot of
trouble, poor dear.'' I can realize that a man
who might have been brave enough or indifferent
enough, had he thought to choose his adventure,
might have only the courage to escape when
choice was denied him.

[14]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

The Mud. At Newport News

We are right on the water here, and It is all new
to me. I really do not believe in the ships yet,
though I see them 'way out, covered with unre-
ality. We may be here six months. We may be
here six days. Meanwhile the mud grows ever
deeper.

Off to the Ship

The trip from Quantico to the troop-ship I'll
never forget. It was the regular route for troop-
trains, but still no one seemed hardened to the
sight. I didn't think there were so many nice
people in America. Whenever the train slowed up,
people came crowding out to wish us luck. The
Red Cross were very good, too, passing out coffee,
ice-cream, and cigarettes at all opportunities.
When the train ran through streets of towns, all
traffic stopped and every one turned to face us
and wave till we were out of sight. Now and then

[15]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

a Civil War veteran rushed out from somewhere
with all the flags he could carry. It was fine,
especially when you think that those people were
probably doing the same thing every day.

Now for the News

I AM in France. I came over on a boat. There is
a war over here. I can't tell you where I am,
what boat I came on, how long it took; nor can I
tell you whom the war is with. These items the
censor forbids, but to the rest you are welcome.

French Mud

Lots of mud over here, too. Don't think Fm
sentimental, but as an honest fact French mud,
so far as Fve experienced it, is finer than American
mud. It's only a foot thick, and underneath, one
can reach to hard ground. It was not so at Hamp-
ton Roads. There one could sink forever, in
caverns fathomless to man.

i6

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

The French — Their Voices

I LIKE the French very much. They are simple,
frank, open-hearted, and they are very kind and
generous to us Americans. Even if they have but
a Httle, the children are willing to share a part
of it. I love to hear them talk, especially the
women. They speak with so much inflection and
change of register, and their manner of speaking
seems to give them good voices, so that when they
speak it is not the even monotone of American
speech, but is like music as their voices change to
suit the expression.

I went to a service in a cathedral one Sunday,
and instead of a sermon delivered in the half-sung
monotone of our preachers at home, I heard a
master-piece of musical diction which thrilled me
through. I understood but little of it. The service
was a Solemn High Mass in memory of the dead
French soldiers. My comrades and I ascended
a winding staircase inside a huge Gothic column,

[17]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

and watched the service from the gallery. It was
most impressive in its colour, music and symbol-
ism, and its general atmosphere. To look down
upon the thousands of women in mourning, and
the few old men, was to know in a new way what
war means.

A Chateau

The chateau is set in a department where even
the smallest hovel bears some traces of formality.
Yet it has all the natural informality of a New
England hillside. And not without a fine appear-
ance of architectural composition. It was very
evidently the work of a man who was truly an
architect. Not the kind we best know with shiny
brass name-plates at their doorways, but a man
of great native instinct for the beautiful. He
was a farmer of ordinary wealth, and had a
family of children, who, as various accoutrements
showed, had been well entertained.

[i8]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

The day I first saw it was our first of real Spring
weather; soft, warm, quiet, and teeming with the
oncoming Hfe. Quite alone, with tiny islanded
lakes, it seemed a fairy home, and each step I
took beat in my heart like a bit of poetry. Almost
unknowingly I found myself uttering line after
line of perfect contentment and pure joy.

I drew a small map of the place to help me tech-
nically, but I feel I owe this chateau a tribute for
many things it has taught my spirit.

Curator of the Brigade Prison

I AM now curator of the Brigade prison, the same
being a very fine prison as prisons go. It has a
high barbed-wire fence, wickedly-armed guards,
balls and chains and everything. I wear an enor-
mous pistol to scare the prisoners with — I hope
they are as much afraid of it as I am. Nobody
outside the army has any idea what red tape
really is: it seems to me sometimes that half
the army is made up of clerks. They put in their

[19I

THE soldier's PROGRESS

time writing letters and filling out forms or else
trying to figure out what the other fellow meant
by his letters and forms. We use up reams of
paper right here in this office keeping the records
of some three-or four-score prisoners.

Dressing

First call finds me half-awake and only one-
quarter conscious of the dreadful fact that I must
get up. My bunkie's dig in the ribs, and a shout
close to the ear, results in vivid life. I reach
under my head and draw forth a part of a pillow.
With an upward movement I force my head and
shoulders into it. It is olive-drab in colour, and
what the washerwoman at the end of the village
calls a "chemise." Then comes a^- slip-on sweater.
Five-thirty finds my lower part still under cover.
So by a reciprocating movement my pillow disin-
tegrates, and accumulates upon my person till I
am dressed. The top-sergeant's whistle finds me
slipping over the edge of my pigeon-nest into

[20]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

my boots, and as that wretched tribe of brass
blares forth assembly I make one grand leap into
line.

Modeling-Clay

Do YOU remember the modeling clay we used to
use? Imagine a sea of it, in which you can hardly
wiggle your boots. On rainy days we stand each
of us at the bottom of a skid, and see to the safe
deposit of 90-lb. rails, 40 feet long, which four
husky boys hurl down at us from flat cars. And
every time we try to move, the clay for yards
about seems disturbed.

A Ridge of France

To-day I found myself in the intervals of work
looking off into the hills with a grey-blue sky
overhead. There is a ridge of France that rises
out of the level like the prow of a battleship,
shaking itself free from some gigantic wave. The

[21]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

dark pines away from the morning sun seem the
shadowed side of the ridge itself, and the bare
side of the hill, slightly dotted with brush, drops
to the light.

I would love to explore it all, if I could pass the
guard. But we have been told that God did not
make all that inviting bit of scenery.

Everywhere from our mushy, miry, muddy pla-
teau are blue hills, and when the wind is against
the guns one can forget. And there are white-
toothed poplars there, bearing big balls of mis-
tletoe. Mountains, gentle mountains, are about
us, and in the descending steep sometimes a
church spire rises up, and round it are white
houses with shining red roofs, that show warm
hearts beneath.

Sitting Under Some Shade-Tree

I HAVE mentioned our continuous rain and more
continuous sticky mud. We were in tents one

[22]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

night recently, and to venture forth at night was
the sacrifice of a martyr. But one chap volun-
teered to quench eight thirsty throats by a trip
to the water-bag. So laden, with eight canteens,
he slipped with a splash into a perfect setting for
the launching of Noah's ark. We couldn't even
hear his footsteps for the rain on the canvas.
Business of continuing conversation. Suddenly,
with many unrepeatable words, a youthful, un-
soldierlike figure, completely draped, strapped
and bound by old U. S. Army canteens, but more
completely hidden by oozing, shining mud, ap-
peared at the flaps. What one could descry of his
face was ample explanation. Chorus of voices,
no one stirring an inch to help him untangle —

^* Bring me my carafe!"

''Why didn't you carry a lantern?"

"Wipe your feet on the mat!"

''Where the hell have you been? Sitting under
some shade-tree?"

[23]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

The French

French plumbing is not highly developed, but
they are an impossibly kind people. As to formal
gardening, they are past masters of the art.
Their collection of colourings in chrysanthemums
at this time of year can not be surpassed; I feel
sure that in this country everything has a touch
of the well planned and well executed, even to
the strip of flowers by the roadside.

Spring

There is a constant current of happy, boyish glee
that is entirely American, in surroundings of
grotesqueness and impossibility. We are all in
great health, and now that the crowbar and the
shovel no longer cut our hands, much is forgotten.
If nothing else, I can at least say I have known
melancholia in its deepest form. It all goes into
experience, just as, with the new breath of Spring

[24]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

in the air and the surety of friendship still flaming
back home, I am sure it will all go into the book
of pleasant memories.

Relief

We are like people down in a well living in foul
air. A little beauty lets in the air, and enables
us to see the stars again. There's a mixed figure,
I see. But a few notes on the violin, the reading
of a stanza of poetry, tells us of a fairer heaven
than theologian ever pictured. One doesn't know
how completely the whirlwind of war has caught
him until a blinding strain of music lifts him from
earth for a moment.

Influences in the Air

Religion had never actually ofi^ered a suflGicient
reality to me to cause me any deep thought, till
I found release for some odd self in me in the so-
called bluer moods of poetical expression. Often-

[25]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

times I work myself into a black despair that
would just tear out my heart and soul. A hurried
walk or a few silent hours alone, and suddenly
release comes through my pencil. Over here the
urge to write poetry

Army Beans

I HAVE had some disagreeable experiences. This
life is very gregarious, and one grows weary of his
fellows. But it is remarkable how a square meal
of army beans will change one's whole view of
life, and make the unpleasant past as dead as
Babylon.

As to boredom, we are kept well alive to it by
exercising constantly. That's rather hard to
understand, I guess. But it is true.

Dead Mule — and Other Things

We have seen the real thing, but if ever I have
to smell anything dead again I won't be respon-
sible for my actions. There are few things as

[26]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

unpleasant as lying in a dugout or a shell-hole all
day with nothing to do but listen to shells and
smell dead mule — and other things. And there
are people back home who want to keep tobacco
from us. . . .

The Machine Gun

By the way, machine guns are not cranked. I
understand the Catlings used at San Juan did
have cranks, but those in use at present have
triggers. You lie on your belly, not stomach,
belly^ and probably in the mud, and you're
probably hungry and thirsty, and you're dirty —
in fact, so dirty that you stink, not smell, stink;
and the stiffs lying in the near vicinity stink too,
only worse, and you're all in, dog-tired; and the
gas-mask gets your goat so badly that you whip
it off and sling it fifty feet, not throw it, sling it,
and the gun gets so damn hot that you burn your
fingers getting the magazine off: and if she jams
when she's hot like that and Fritz is coming

[27]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

your way, — ^well, you're out o' luck, and if youVe
a pin or a gat. handy you grab it and get busy,
and if you haven't, you just get up and run like
hell in the general direction of the west coast of
France. That is, if you've got any sense!

The Dead

When the big doings were on, I was surprised at
the way the dead affected me. They lay along
the river banks and in the woods, one here, three
there, in all sorts of odd attitudes. Now and then
there would be a dead man by the side of the
path on a litter. Some had blood about their
nostrils, some had head and shoulders blown
away. Yet I had no feeling of horror or even of
sympathy. They were not like the dead at home,
washed and combed and faultlessly attired in
awful dignity amid silks and flowers. The forest
was not a death-house, but a monstrous wax-
works; and some of the figures were broken.
They lay out there for days. A German turns

[28]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

the color of his uniform after a few days. . . .

I remember one man's speaking of the terrible
look In the eyes of his friend. It didn't seem that
way to me. They were just the blue eyes of a
doll that gaze at something a great ways off.
There was perhaps a suggestion that behind the
eyes a soul might still be lurking. But I have
always felt that way about the dead.

In the main the bodies were just manikins,
figures that might be broken. But their attitudes
could never be changed. One looked at them and
left them.

I have written no poems.

My senses are awake to every pleasurable
sensation, but my mind trots a worn road with
Its eyes closed.

Sorry to Interfere With Their Washing

We occupied a sector with the French, and saw
many Germans get up from cover. We commenced

[29]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

picking them off. The poilus were very angry
at this. It seems the French were in the habit of
washing their clothes one day and hanging them
out to dry without molestation from the Germans,
and on the following day the courtesy was ex-
tended to Fritz by the poilus. We didn't know
about this, and the poilus said: ^'A few Germans
more or less make no difference. You can never
win the war that way." We were very sorry to
interfere with the washing of either Frenchies or
Germans.

Tintern Abbey

Queer surroundings, but last week for the first
time I read and reread Lines Written a Few Miles
Above Tintern Abbey dreaming and drifting away
in its possibilities to me. It seems as though, even
if I had never been taught the lessons of Christ,
I should find Him in the magic of those Hues.

[30]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

Casus Belli

The world has clung too fondly to its wealth,
its traditions, its superstitions. It has ignored
the realities of life. This war destroys some of
those things, and makes people give up their hold
on others. Calamity and the destruction of
forms which had been hindering life's progress,
will force people to search deeper for comfort.
The war will result in benefit to the arts, social
conditions, education, and religion. Meanwhile,
most of us are tired to death of not going to the
front. The country is all right, but there's nothing
to do or to see when you're a doughboy.

Too Religious

A THING we used to swear at was the gas mask.
We swear by it now. You have heard of the Bible
in the pocket saving a man's life. I saw a man in
the woods gassed to death— gas-mask in one hand,
Bible in the other. If he had not been so religious

[31]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

he would have had both hands for the gas-mask,
and wouldn^t have needed the Bible.

Reflections

I FIND myself crabbing and complaining and
bemoaning at times, but later I generally face the
real issue to myself, and I know there was nothing
to admire about my attitude. The Kaiser played
us all for suckers when he started through Bel-
gium back in '14. Sacrifice is a plain duty now,
not an imposition.

Crudey but Picturesque

I WANDERED over to the first BattaHon to see a
friend who used to spend his time telling what a
worthless gang of animals his company is. " How
did the rummy bunch show up?'^ I asked him.
He looked at me with a cold stare. "This,'* he
said, "is the best bunch of men in the whole
damned army. There ain't a man what won't walk

[32]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

right up to a German machine gun and spit in
its eye.'^

Chateau- Thierry

We are resting now after a somewhat strenuous
time. The Germans made a drive and planned
a pretty rapid advance. They moved at the
anticipated speed, but not in the anticipated
direction. Our organisation made a splendid name
for itself. When we tramped back, after being
relieved, the band was at the side of the road and
the colors were unfurled. We looked like a bunch
of tramps, our clothes were torn, we were dirty
and hairy and tired. But when we saw those
colors pass the reviewing place . . . !

Bright Eyes

He was a mere child — we called him Bright Eyes.
I heard afterward he was from Tech. I didn't
know he was gone until I found his grave, a filled-

[33]

THE SOLDIER S PROGRESS

in shell-hole with a split-rail cross and his dog-
tag nailed to it.

In Another Recaptured Village

I SAW by the roadside a young girl who, rumour
had it, was in the town when our troops took it.
She was a big blonde girl, pale and magnificently
erect. Her chin was set and she stared ahead
while all the triumph of a conquering army
hurried past her. Whether she was French or
German I do not know. There are blonde girls
in that part of France. . . .

Gothic

I HAVE been thinking of Hearn^s fear of something
"that haunted the tops'' of Gothic arches. Did
you ever see a person enter a Gothic church of
beauty who did not look upward first? Or a
person of religious mind who did not, after the
first lowering of the head upon entering a holy

[34]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

edifice, look heavenwards and expand his bosom?
And among the trees at your own home, how
often have you glanced upward? Gothic is first
of all a natural expression of the spirit; and since
it is natural, is logical and all else. The logic
of Greece and the materialism of Rome could
never comprehend a single line of Rheim.s. That
sounds as though I had read it, and perhaps I
have. But Rheims now! . , .

A Recovered Village

Not long ago we passed through some towns
that the Germans had held since the beginning
of the war. There were no houses, just ragged
walls and heaps of stones. The roads were blocked
with trafiftc. OflScers were inspecting the ruins
for mines and traps. Before the village Mairie
were refugees sitting on their little bundles. They
had come home!

Some of the old people had been left behind by

[35]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

the Germans. I saw two women so old and
crumpled they might have been the very ones
who knitted to the cadence of the guillotine in
Paris long ago.

One Night on the Marne

One night on the Marne, while the great second
battle was on, I met a friend. We had only a few
minutes together, but I managed to give him
the address of a friend of both of us whom I had
just heard from. He was a fine chap, the absent
friend, and I had known him when we flew our
kites in Highland Park.

I was badly hit when I learned he had been
killed. The other day I received a letter from the
fellow I had met on the Marne. He was in hos-
pital. He wrote: "Dab's snuffing out is bad. I
knew it the night I talked to you, but couldn't
say anything to you when you gave me his
address."

[36]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

From a German Prison

I AM doing a deal of plain ordinary labor, of a
farming nature mostly. No latent agricultural
powers in me have as yet been tapped, nor has
my training at Tech equipped me for the life of
the farmer — in which self-estimate I find my Ger-
man captors naively concurring. However, I am
trying to emulate Leonardo da Vinci in grasping
all that this great world has to offer, striving for
a degree of universality. . . .

We are beneficially in touch with the Red Cross
and the Y.M.C.A. 'Way off here, cloistered in the
quiet lowlands of Baden, we feel the strength and
purity of our homeland, the spirit of America
comes to us every day in full force. Nothing
stops it, not even the Rhine, the Black Forest,
the topless Alps. Be it months or years before
we get back, believe me, the eyes of American
boys are constantly turned to the west; and the
days bring only surety.

[37]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

A Day Off

Recently I had the good fortune of a day all to
myself. I set out in high excitement across a
meadow so thickly sprinkled with marigold that
it seemed a very quilt of splendor for Springtime
on these chilly nights. My path took me through
a forest to a vale. Happiness leaped beside me.
I have never felt so near the answer to the riddle
of life as on that day.

Half-way up the valley I noticed that every-
where were the purple, funereal flowers of the myr-
tle. They became more predominant, and sudden-
ly I had to stop and bow my head. My spirit had
changed, and I could see and feel only the agony
of France,

Drop in on Me

Drop in on me and talk through one of these
fine moonlit nights, of things and ideas and ideals
(aside from military) occupying the thoughts and

[38 ]

THE soldier's PROGRESS

hopes of man. Poetry, music, and art may all be
dead as far as I know from direct information.
But a night or two on guard, or a twilight, tells
much aside from the streaks of low purring planes
overhead, thundering guns, whistling shells, and
crack-crack of machine guns. And so the hours
thereafter in dugouts bring quiet sleep.

Beauty

There are a lot of peace rumours in the papers
now. They make my gorge rise. There can be no
peace with Germany whole and France in ruins.
But the strangest thing I have seen. . . . Even
the cannon can but make the French towns more
beautiful.

[39]